17: THE LETTER

HANNA PEERED THROUGH the window, watching Claire drive out of the parking lot, followed by Howard and Charles. Lenny and Arthur were stuffing Eileen in the back seat of their sedan. They would bring her to the same motel they had been staying at for the last two nights.

Russell was still with her in the lab, shutting down the computer. “I’m so relieved everything still works,” he said. “That fan incident gave me a scare.”

Hanna left the window and walked over to the computer, running her fingers along the side panel of the case. “Me too. Let’s make sure that never happens again. We’ve had enough hardware issues.”

“The diagnostic tests say everything is back to normal. We should be fine, as long as no one unplugs the cooling fans.”

“Was it just a loose connection?”

“It’s possible, I guess, but the cords click in. I have a hard time believing all of them just slipped out on their own.”

“I’ve got a weird feeling about this,” Hanna said, staring straight ahead. “And it’s not just the cooling fans. Something’s off about this case.”

“Don’t stress about it. Tomorrow, we’ll get inside her dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. We’ll find the evidence we need and finally get that big paycheck we deserve. Core Tech Computing will live on, and life will continue as it was. Just go home and get some sleep. We’ll wrap this up in the morning.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep. Maybe I’ll stay late and look through the case files again.”

“You can’t look at the case—”

“I know,” Hanna interrupted, rolling her eyes. “I can’t look at the case files without SCB supervision. Finn is still here, right?”

“I think so. But you better hurry. I saw him packing up. And don’t stay too late. It’s supposed to snow later tonight.”

“Thanks, Russell,” she said, backstepping out of the lab. “Get some rest.”

She strolled down the hall, catching Finn just as he was shutting the door to the conference room.

He waved. “Have a good night. See you in the morning.”

“Wait,” she said. “I was hoping to take another look at the case files.”

“Sorry. No can do. I’ve got a leftover pizza waiting for me back home.” He patted his stomach. “There’s something about this case that really burns those calories right out of you. I’ve got to replenish. Otherwise, I’ll be all skin and bones.”

Hanna glanced at his slim belly. “Russell’s the same way. He eats and eats, but no matter how much he stuffs down his mouth, he’s as thin as a stick. He says he’s Pac-Man, and I’m the snake.

“The snake?” Finn asked.

“You know, that game that came with every computer back in the day. You eat an apple, and the snake grows, but Pac-Man eats all of the fruit in the world and doesn’t grow an inch.”

“I don’t think that metaphor works.”

“Yeah, Russell was never great with metaphors.”

“At least Pac-Man has some heft to him. Just look at these arms.” He rolled up his sleeve to show her. “Twigs. You want a video game metaphor? You’re Mike Tyson, and I’m Glass Joe.”

“Some people would kill to have that problem.”

“Yeah, well, I would kill to have a little muscle. Hell, I’d settle for King Hippo at this point.”

“Okay, take it easy, Mr. Punch-Out. I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I was just hoping you would stay a little longer. I really wanted to look at those files. I won’t be long.”

“You know, in my entire career, I’ve never stayed a minute later than I’ve had to.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d hate to break that streak.”

“You don’t have to stay. Just leave your security card with me. I’ll pack everything up when I’m done.”

“You know I can’t do that. It’s against SCB policy. I could lose my job. And you would be in violation of your contract. If anyone found out, you would lose your big paycheck.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I know. It was worth a shot.”

“I’ll let you see them first thing in the morning. I promise.”

“If you stay late, I’ll buy you a fresh pizza from the place of your choosing. Piping hot, right out of the oven. None of this day-old fridge pizza nonsense.”

Finn’s ears perked up. “How can I turn down a deal like that? I guess the infamous streak ends today. I’ll give you ten minutes, but that’s it.” He dug into his pocket, searching for the security card. “Hmm,” he mumbled. “Where did I put it?” He patted the back of his pants. Nothing. He peeked into his breast pocket. Still nothing. “I must have misplaced it. I wish I could help, but I can’t open that box without my card. I’ll find it in the morning, or Howard can give you access when he gets in. That’s the best I can do.”

“Are you sure you can’t help? You’re giving up your pizza just like that?”

“What do you want me to do, break the damn safe open with my hands? Need I remind you?” He rolled up his sleeve again. “Twigs. Besides, some people consider cold pizza a delicacy.”

Hanna sighed. “I guess I can wait. But I’m going to find you first thing in the morning.”

Finn pointed finger guns at her. “I’m looking forward to it.” He turned around and walked away. “Have a good night, Hanna. Go home. Get some sleep.”

She stood alone in the hallway, watching him turn the corner. Once he was gone, she cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed against the viewing window in the door. The room was dark, but the blinking red light of the overhead projector provided just enough light to see.

The box-shaped safe was on the table, tethered to one of the legs with a metal strap. An assortment of crumpled chip bags and candy wrappers surrounded Finn’s seat at the head of the table.

She stared at the pile of wrappers, watching them light up whenever the projector light flashed. They illuminated like red stars in the vast void of outer space. And out of that void, away from the wrappers, she noticed another object reflecting the red light. It was a piece of plastic on the floor beneath the chair.

“Hmm,” Hanna mumbled. She entered the room and flipped on the lights, circling around the table, keeping her eye on the piece of plastic. She bent down to pick it up, studying the portrait of Finn. It was his security card.

In the photo, his hair was unusually long, draping down in front of his face. Instead of a professional shirt and tie, he wore a baggy pullover hoodie. There was bold text printed next to the photo: Finn Dooley - Security Level 2.

She shook her head and grinned. “Finn Dooley, you’re a messy, disorganized slob, and I love you for it.”

The sound of a car motor came from the window. She walked over to peer out at the parking lot. Russell’s car was already gone and Finn was pulling out of his spot. The only car left was her own. She watched Finn drive away, and once he was gone, she scurried back across the room to close the door. With the security card in her hand, she approached the safe.

The scanner was near the top of the box, just below the handle. She glanced at the card again, this time reading the fine print on the back. This card is to be used by the cardholder and no one else. Did she really want to break the rules? Was it worth the risk?

The future of Core Tech Computing was at stake, but there was something about this case that twisted her gut in all the wrong ways. Something was horribly wrong, and she needed to figure out what it was. The office was empty. No one else was around. She would take a look, find what she needed, lock the files back up, and place Finn’s card back where she found it. No one would ever know.

In a wavering moment of self-doubt, she placed the card on the table and stared at it. Eileen’s face appeared in her mind. The expression she had after confronting her father. It was the face of someone tormented by a lifetime of abuse, both physical and emotional. It was the face of someone who had attempted suicide after enduring the cruelty of high school bullying. It was the face of someone who had given up her academic future in favor of prostitution. It was a saddened face, but not the face of a killer.

“Screw it,” she muttered, picking up the card and holding it in front of the scanner.

There was a soft click as the locking mechanism released. She opened the top and pulled out the folders, spreading the contents across the table. With the papers laid out, she skimmed through all of the information, hoping to find something new.

The first murder. Anthony Higgs. Stabbed eighty-eight times in his house in Roxbury. Girlfriend was in Maine. Two-year-old daughter was found alive upstairs.

The second murder. Cameron Shultz. Stabbed fifty-four times in his house in Dorchester. No signs of struggle. Wife was at work. Two daughters were at school. Back door was kicked in.

The third murder. Tucker Wright. Stabbed sixty-one times in his apartment in Mattapan. Girlfriend was at her sister’s house. Son and daughter were at his ex-wife’s house. Found by maintenance worker. Door was unlocked. No sign of a break in.

None of it was helpful. If Eileen was innocent, who else could it be? At one point, the wife and two girlfriends had been primary suspects. The three murders were considered unrelated domestic homicides carried out by disgruntled partners. But there was no evidence to incriminate any of them. They all had solid alibis.

The only connection between the three victims was their relationship with Eileen. And to close it all out, Eileen’s hair was found at all three crime scenes. It was the strongest evidence against her and the reason she was in SCB custody.

Hanna flipped from the victim profiles to the crime scene evidence. The murder weapons were not identical. Three separate kitchen knives taken from three separate homes. No fingerprints. No signs of struggle, other than the kicked in door.

She leaned closer to study the photo of the broken door frame. No signs of struggle. That’s what the report said, but how could the perpetrator kick in the door without startling the victim? Certainly, there would have been an altercation if Eileen had kicked in the door and attacked him with a knife. But analysis of the crime scene showed no struggle at all. Apparently, Mr. Shultz had ignored the door blasting open and decided to continue eating his breakfast.

Unless the person had killed him first and kicked it open after. Someone with a key to the house who wanted to make it look like a break-in. Eileen knew Cameron Shultz, but did she know him well enough to have a key to their house? Hanna doubted it.

He could have invited her in. His kids were at school and his wife was away. Inviting her into his house was plausible. Then she killed him, panicked, and kicked the door to cover her tracks. But Eileen didn’t visit her clients in their homes. That’s not how she operated. They always came to her.

Leaving that thought, Hanna shifted her focus to a photo of Eileen’s hair. It was the one piece of evidence that was hardest to dispute. Hairs were found on the clothes of each victim. An argument could be made that it was just coincidence, that the hair had migrated, but it was unlikely. A single load of laundry would have cleaned any hair right out. No matter how much she nitpicked the rest of the evidence, the hair pointed right back at Eileen Warner.

Hanna leaned back, rubbing her eyes. There was nothing else to see. She was trying to defend someone who was probably guilty. It was time to give up and go to sleep. She shuffled the papers back into place and slid them into the safe.

As she reached for the cover, her eyes caught the name tag that was still stuck to the surface of the table. It was the same name tag that Howard had slapped down. The same name tag Finn had ripped while trying to peel it off. He had torn off the F and the second n, but the middle part of his name was still intact. She squinted to focus on the letter i.

“Hold on a minute,” she said to herself.

Her heart raced as she grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages. When she found the three photos of Eileen’s hair, she placed them side by side, leaning forward with her face only inches from the table. Each hair sample was held in an evidence bag, and each bag had a handwritten label: Eileen Warner’s Hair Sample.

She recalled pointing out the peculiar handwriting to Claire. Specifically of the letter i. The vertical part was slanted to the right and the bottom swooped up to the left. Like a checkmark. She had never seen an i written like that before, but there it was. In the words Eileen and hair, both swooped to the left. She glanced back at Finn’s name tag. No swoop.

She flipped through photos of other evidence. The murder weapons. The victims. The crime scenes. All had labels that matched the handwriting on Finn’s name tag. All except the hair samples.

Finn was the only one processing the crime scene. He was the only one bagging evidence and taking photos. And he was supposed to be the only one writing labels. But now there was a second set of handwriting, and the only place it appeared was on the three pieces of evidence that linked Eileen to the murders. Someone other than Finn had planted the bags of hair. Eileen was being framed.

A muffled sound came from the hallway. Hanna jumped in her seat. Her eyes darted to the viewing window in the door, but it was too dark to see if anyone was in the hallway.

She froze, keeping her eye on the window. The darkness remained for a moment longer, and then a dim light turned on. Someone had returned to the office, and she was looking at classified government files without the proper supervision. She stumbled around the table, stuffing everything back in the safe. She closed the top, and as soon as the lock clicked, she tossed Finn’s security card onto the floor.

Mindful of the sound she was making, she tiptoed to the door and cracked it open, peeking through the thin slit. The corridor was mostly dark, illuminated only by a light around the corner. The light was coming from the lab. Had Russell forgotten something and returned to retrieve it?

“Russell?” she called out, leaving the conference room, and wading through the hallway. “Is that you?”

There was no answer. As she passed the kitchen, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. She had lost track of time. Who would come back to the office so late?

She turned the corner and entered the lab, finding a man standing at the control panel, facing away from her. He wore a black hood over his head and dark leather gloves.

“Russell?” she said, glaring at the back of his head. “What’s with the outfit?”

The man spun around, freezing in place when he saw her. His face was obscured by a black ski mask.

Filled with panic, Hanna searched for a weapon. On the counter was Russell’s boxcutter. She picked it up and pushed out the blade, holding it in front of her. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The man did not answer. Not a word. Not a noise. Nothing. He stood with his arms at his sides, staring back at her.

Hanna was paralyzed with doubt. She had a weapon, but the man was large. He could easily overpower her. She stepped forward and raised the blade higher. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

Again, no response. He moved his hand to his waist.

“Hey!” Hanna yelled, stepping forward again. “Don’t move a muscle.”

He ignored her, lifting the bottom of his shirt to reveal a holster clipped to his belt. He drew his gun and aimed at her head.

She stopped advancing and retracted the blade, raising her hands over her head. “Okay, I’m backing off. No need to escalate things any further. All I want to do is talk. What do—”

Before she could finish, the man holstered his weapon, spun around, and grabbed the storage server from the counter. He yanked out the wires and sprinted across the room.